


Go down to you

by birctreel



Category: Original Story
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birctreel/pseuds/birctreel
Summary: A writing workshop work years ago in university.





	Go down to you

In the beginning he was a nineteen-year-old teenage. By the time he retired from army he had become a man with stubble of untrimmed beard, collar covered with medals. And in the end he was floating in the river, he was known by no one.

And before this scene he was lying on the grass in central park like a tramp. So cold. He murmured. Toss and turn.

The breezing wind reminded him of that freezing night, Bern and he, hided in the trench, waited for sunlight. Explosions and gunfire everywhere, firmament was too dark to see a piece of starlight. He was almost cold to death, kept murmuring a poem. Bern didn’t say anything but clasped him, tightly. “Hold on.” He whispered, warm breath almost ignited his auricle. “Hold on, we can see the light.”

Reached into the pocket of coat, he found that dog-eared love poem, the poem he murmured that night, the poem written by pens distributed from army, the poem too late to give to Bern. Sudden pricking from hands shocked him. He squeezed some hand lotion in hasten, rubbed all over, and gently covered his face with hands, took a deep long breath. He only use this kind of hand lotion for this 16 years. It was, fragrant, stable, a fuzzy figure of a man appeared, in his eyes blurred by tears, then vanished in the air.

It was a hazy afternoon in the barracks, river flowing, birds twittering, dizzy was him in such bright weather. A handsome, six-foot man knocked him down, and pulled him up instantly. “Sorry, lunchtime.” He smiled and grabbed him from dust instantly, “Hi, I’m Bern, nice to meet you.”

Unlike other soldier in the army, Bern was neither too careless, nor too barbaric. Bern was taller than him, with thick bows, talking rude words, looks like those who can see the end of all wars. Bern always called him little guy, what made him not so pleasant. “Take this.” One day Bern gave him a brass Zippo. “Be a man, little guy. ”

No matter how hard Bern taught him and he learned to smoke, all ended with his cough, and Bern laughing and clapping his back. Now the way he take the cigarette and the expression when he smoke, is just like a doppelganger of Bern. But Bern never see it.

A fork, and something soft he touched when he put back the hand lotion. That touch reminded him of their last meal ate together. He ordered a pizza, but Bern called for another dish of spaghetti for him. “You should eat more stuffs, in case this would be our last meal.” Bern said. “Don’t say that silly things.” He said, then they burst into laughter. After the dinner he kept the tissue and fork Bern used. Can’t remember why, or how he did it, he just kept it for years. Sometimes he would take out the tissue and rubbed it slightly on his lips, as if kissing the one he who never got closer.

When the war came to an end, bringing the news of Bern’s death, he knew that he would wander in this world, lonely, to forever.

 

_Go down to you. Later._

 

Luckily for him, he had maintained some things after his retirement. A brass whistle, Bern house’s keys (he strung with his own keys), auld Zippo, and a photo of Bern in uniform. Small them were, compared with some, yet it was large enough to commemorate the emotion never slip from lips.

He lighted up the last cigarette. True to your words I fought and survived like a man. Now, Bern, you should allow me, to die like a man.

 

_Go down to you. Soon._

 

As made up the eventual decision, he stood up and walked to the final end. When he passed by a little shop just opened, he bought a small china dog. I remembered that you liked dogs. With the pocket filled with small stuffs, he was given the greatest courage. But the photograph would get wet. He thought for a while. Come on, I do not need it any more. Next time I see you, you shall call me uncle, Bern. Thinking about this, he cannot help but smiling.

And then he climbed over the fence, walked down to the riverside, whispering that poem, down to the black river, step by step. Until mud wrapped his ankles, water poured into his eardrums, he cannot speak anymore. I love you. He said in the water. Wet cloth stick to his body, pocket pull him to the deeper part of water. There was only one thing in this world capable of sinking him in the river, and that thing, memory.

 

_Go down to you. Sorry for waiting._

 

Silent is the whistle in the water, wrinkled is the old photograph, Zippo was one shirt from his heart never beat again. The black river will keep flow, flow to distant place no one knows. Days later, not a despair, ardent love, but a rotten body, with a pocket filled with meaningless things was found. And above the river, the sun was ready to light up the world.


End file.
